From a young age, I’ve developed my own sort of mantra to get me through school. Do as much as you can, you’ll thank yourself later. Naturally, I cannot take all the credit for this mindset; in Goshen Central School District, there were options for students like me. I was fortunate enough to be able to take honors classes beginning in eighth grade. My work ethic was grounded from those advanced classes, and helped me get where I am today, academically.
My experience with being singled out started at a young age. In kindergarten, my teacher Mrs. D’Addio split the class into several reading groups. I was in a group with one other person. The two of us had a separate group because we could read at a first grade level. Looking back, I remember reading a lot with m mother before I started kindergarten which explains my ease at reading. We were in the smallest group among the class, but that meant nothing to me when I was four and a half years old. At that time, no one really understood what the division of the class meant, nor did we care. I read the books I was given obediently, not having the insight to know I was different from anyone else.
As I got older, my eyes began to open to the different types of students. I couldn’t tell the difference between deep learners or surface learners; that came much later in my school career. In third grade, I was in my first inclusion class. This means that a portion of the class was considered special education students. None had serious learning disabilities; most were nearly unidentifiable from another child’s perspective. My parents were skeptical about this type of learning environment. Would it slow down my education? Would it benefit me somehow? My parents decided that it would be a good learning experience for me to be in an untraditional classroom setting. Learning alongside of these children helped me gain knowledge outside of the standard curriculum.
In retrospect, I became a sort of mentor for the children with disabilities. I was their age, so I wasn’t intimidating to them. My teachers would often let me read to them at literacy time, which enhanced my reading skills and their listening and focus. It was a mutualistic relationship, and I enjoyed it very much. Sometimes, if the designated special education teacher—we had a regular teacher and a special education-certified teacher—was busy grading papers or working one-on-one with a student, I got to assist children with their homework or simple activities such as vocabulary sheets. The students respected me for my help and patience, and I respected them for their hard work, even when the schoolwork was challenging for them. I’m thankful I had the opportunity to work with the special education students; it was my first piece of insight regarding what I call ‘real life.’ That sounds derogatory to an educator, but the experiences to follow later in my grade school career may explain my terminology.
I’d like to take a moment to point out that I was never the smartest student. In fact, throughout my school career, I’ve engaged in plenty of debates regarding my academic standards. Many might say that because I get good grades, I am naturally smart. To clear up any confusion, I am not naturally smart; I have a respectable work ethic. This makes a difference to me, although for some people who don’t value school as highly as I do, it might seem the same. It is not easy for me to maintain high grades or to participate in honors classes, which in grade school, were truly harder. They weren’t just ‘different.’ I recall the day I took the advanced placement tests—way back in seventh grade—to determine whether I was eligible to skip eighth grade level mathematics and science. The eighty students who did become eligible, and chose to participate, went into eighth grade taking all the same classes as everyone else, with the exception of math and science, which were ninth grade levels. At the end of the year, it was mandatory for those students to take the Regents Exams for the designated classes, just as a freshman in any New York high school would. Those grades would be recorded, kept on file, and eventually sent to college senior year.
As a twelve year old, I was fortunate to understand what a huge responsibility it would be to take such classes. I was ready for the weight of the pressure to learn, to focus, and to get ahead. Selection for advanced placement was a weighted combination of grades for math and science throughout the year, scores on the examinations, and teacher recommendation. The selection process always raised grief of parents whose children didn’t get into the program, but I thought it was a fair determination. It wasn’t solely on grades, but grades were a larger fraction of it. I went into those two tests with an idea of how I would do; math was always my strongest subject and science was my weakest. I reasoned that if I got into advanced math and not science, I was still saving myself some trouble later on in school, so I should be happy with that.
To my surprise, I got two letters in the mail that June. They were both structured similarly, but one said I was invited to take advanced algebra, and the other for advanced biology. I was pleased with the recognition of my hard work, but I didn’t think I could handle being in a higher level of science considering it was always my weakest subject. My parents let me make the choice to accept of decline the invitation myself. I knew that they secretly didn’t want me to take biology because it’d put too much stress on me, and an eighth grader does not need a large quantity of stress. I promised myself that I was capable of pushing myself harder and that I should never pass down an opportunity to do so.
In the fall, I began my first accelerated classes. Algebra was a breeze and biology tested my patience for frustration, just as I expected. I spent countless days after school with my biology teacher, Ms. Muller. I researched several websites with vocabulary and videos trying to connect the chapters of the textbook together in my head. I finished the classes with quarterly grades and Regents exam grades both above ninety. I proved to myself, my teachers, and my parents that I could do it if I told myself I could and put in a little more effort. To this day, I’ve never slowed down, and I’ve never quit the honors route.
My experience with being singled out started at a young age. In kindergarten, my teacher Mrs. D’Addio split the class into several reading groups. I was in a group with one other person. The two of us had a separate group because we could read at a first grade level. Looking back, I remember reading a lot with m mother before I started kindergarten which explains my ease at reading. We were in the smallest group among the class, but that meant nothing to me when I was four and a half years old. At that time, no one really understood what the division of the class meant, nor did we care. I read the books I was given obediently, not having the insight to know I was different from anyone else.
As I got older, my eyes began to open to the different types of students. I couldn’t tell the difference between deep learners or surface learners; that came much later in my school career. In third grade, I was in my first inclusion class. This means that a portion of the class was considered special education students. None had serious learning disabilities; most were nearly unidentifiable from another child’s perspective. My parents were skeptical about this type of learning environment. Would it slow down my education? Would it benefit me somehow? My parents decided that it would be a good learning experience for me to be in an untraditional classroom setting. Learning alongside of these children helped me gain knowledge outside of the standard curriculum.
In retrospect, I became a sort of mentor for the children with disabilities. I was their age, so I wasn’t intimidating to them. My teachers would often let me read to them at literacy time, which enhanced my reading skills and their listening and focus. It was a mutualistic relationship, and I enjoyed it very much. Sometimes, if the designated special education teacher—we had a regular teacher and a special education-certified teacher—was busy grading papers or working one-on-one with a student, I got to assist children with their homework or simple activities such as vocabulary sheets. The students respected me for my help and patience, and I respected them for their hard work, even when the schoolwork was challenging for them. I’m thankful I had the opportunity to work with the special education students; it was my first piece of insight regarding what I call ‘real life.’ That sounds derogatory to an educator, but the experiences to follow later in my grade school career may explain my terminology.
I’d like to take a moment to point out that I was never the smartest student. In fact, throughout my school career, I’ve engaged in plenty of debates regarding my academic standards. Many might say that because I get good grades, I am naturally smart. To clear up any confusion, I am not naturally smart; I have a respectable work ethic. This makes a difference to me, although for some people who don’t value school as highly as I do, it might seem the same. It is not easy for me to maintain high grades or to participate in honors classes, which in grade school, were truly harder. They weren’t just ‘different.’
I recall the day I took the advanced placement tests—way back in seventh grade—to determine whether I was eligible to skip eighth grade level mathematics and science. The eighty students who did become eligible, and chose to participate, went into eighth grade taking all the same classes as everyone else, with the exception of math and science, which were ninth grade levels. At the end of the year, it was mandatory for those students to take the Regents Exams for the designated classes, just as a freshman in any New York high school would. Those grades would be recorded, kept on file, and eventually sent to college senior year.
As a twelve year old, I was fortunate to understand what a huge responsibility it would be to take such classes. I was ready for the weight of the pressure to learn, to focus, and to get ahead. Selection for advanced placement was a weighted combination of grades for math and science throughout the year, scores on the examinations, and teacher recommendation. The selection process always raised grief of parents whose children didn’t get into the program, but I thought it was a fair determination. It wasn’t solely on grades, but grades were a larger fraction of it. I went into those two tests with an idea of how I would do; math was always my strongest subject and science was my weakest. I reasoned that if I got into advanced math and not science, I was still saving myself some trouble later on in school, so I should be happy with that.
To my surprise, I got two letters in the mail that June. They were both structured similarly, but one said I was invited to take advanced algebra, and the other for advanced biology. I was pleased with the recognition of my hard work, but I didn’t think I could handle being in a higher level of science considering it was always my weakest subject. My parents let me make the choice to accept of decline the invitation myself. I knew that they secretly didn’t want me to take biology because it’d put too much stress on me, and an eighth grader does not need a large quantity of stress. I promised myself that I was capable of pushing myself harder and that I should never pass down an opportunity to do so.
In the fall, I began my first accelerated classes. Algebra was a breeze and biology tested my patience for frustration, just as I expected. I spent countless days after school with my biology teacher, Ms. Muller. I researched several websites with vocabulary and videos trying to connect the chapters of the textbook together in my head. I finished the classes with quarterly grades and Regents exam grades both above ninety. I proved to myself, my teachers, and my parents that I could do it if I told myself I could and put in a little more effort. To this day, I’ve never slowed down, and I’ve never quit the honors route.